


Smokin' and ridin'

by Pansexualweirdo



Category: Grand Theft Auto V
Genre: A Wee Bit Of Internalized Homophobia, Angst, Attempt at Humor, Cuddling & Snuggling, Developing Relationship, Drinking, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Explicit Language, Falling In Love, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Friendship, Happy Ending, Implied/Referenced Drug Use, Just Homies Being Homies, Kissing, Lamar Is A Bi Disaster, Love Confessions, M/M, Mutual Pining, One Shot, POV Franklin Clinton, Swearing, Unread, a lot of swearing
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-06-01
Updated: 2020-06-01
Packaged: 2021-03-02 23:27:15
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,205
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/24495007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Pansexualweirdo/pseuds/Pansexualweirdo
Summary: “I don’t get why I’m not into it. The dates, you know… The girls are hot, the places we go are nice, I mean-... What else could a guy want?”“I dunno man, maybe you’re just gay,” Franklin says without thinking, and he knows it was the wrong call when Lamar visibly flinches, like the word itself has inflicted pain on him. It was only meant to be a joke, but Lamar clearly doesn’t see it that way. He shoots up from the couch, fury written all over the expression on his face.“Fuck you!” he spits, venom in his words, and then he’s out the door.Or; Franklin has to save Lamar's ass again. But this time, it's not from the Ballas or a shady deal gone wrong, but from a date.Happy pride month y'all! And happy reading!
Relationships: Franklin Clinton & Lamar Davis, Franklin Clinton/Lamar Davis, Lamar Davis & Original Female Character(s)
Comments: 7
Kudos: 36





	Smokin' and ridin'

It’s a quiet Friday evening in the middle of a workout pass that Franklin’s phone starts ringing from across the room. This soon after the union depository job, Franklin prays it isn’t Michael or Trevor. He loves those dudes, but the last thing he wants to hear right now is that they’ve still got someone left to take care of, or that Merryweather’s found their location or some shit. He puts down his weights, wipes his brow of sweat with a fresh towel, and picks up his phone. He’s not all that surprised to see who’s calling, and can’t help but breathe a small sigh of relief because it’s not either of the crazy old white dudes.

“LD. What’s up homie?”

“Look, fool, I don’t got time for small talk, you gotta help a nigga out,” Lamar speaks into the receiver, low and rushed, and Franklin rolls his eyes, an oxymoron of exasperated and amused. Of course his best homie has to get himself wrapped up in some deal gone wrong or other. It just ain’t Lamar if he goes a week without needing Franklin’s help.

“Who’d you piss off this time? If I gotta save your stupid-ass from the Ballas one more time, I swear to God-”

“It ain’t the Ballas, nigga, fuck you,” Lamar snaps, sounding like he’s at the end of his rope, and he _just_ called. Alright, so real talk it is then. Franklin puts the phone on speaker and changes his clothes, perfectly aware that he’s gotta go get his friend and not even all that bothered by it. It’s kinda become routine for them, and that can’t be a good sign.

“Aight, fine. Who is it, then?” he asks, shrugging on his going-out jacket and grabbing his house keys, heading for the door.

When he can only hear shallow breathing on the other end, concern spikes in his chest. It isn’t like Lamar to be quiet. Not at all.

“You dyin’ on me or somethin'?”

It’s only half a joke.

“It’s a girl, aight? It’s a mothafuckin' girl! There, I said it.”

Suddenly, Franklin’s very confused. He takes a step back from the front door, weighing his options. Now Lamar needs help with the ladies? As if he’d ever admit _that_ , Franklin thought, skeptical.

“What? Come again? You, LD, needs to be saved from a _girl?”_

“Man, fuck you, I’ll just take care of it myself then. Some friend you are...” Lamar mutters, hurt underlining his words, and Franklin knows he screwed up. Lamar isn’t usually this sensitive about these sort of things, but something’s clearly up.

“Woah, woah, woah, slow down Lamar! Of course I’m gonna help you out, you my dawg! I just… she crazy or sumtin’? Should I bring a gun?”

Franklin barely speaks that last part aloud. He's not too keen on killing girls, but if they're threatening his best friend, then…

“What the fuck? _No!_ You been hangin' out with the crazy dude too much, nigga! She fine. Like, _real_ fine. Got a piece of ass like you wouldn’t believe, sculpted by God him-fucking-self,” rambles Lamar, sounding just as enthused about it as he’s bummed, like he’s giving her up against his own will. Which is ludicrous. And Franklin’s suddenly not in that much of a rush anymore.

“What’s the fuckin' problem, then? She got STDs or some shit?”

“No, just- Can’t you just help your boy out without askin' so many goddamn questions? I’ll explain it to you when you get here. We’re at Clappers.”

And it _does_ sound urgent. Franklin has no idea what’s up, but he’ll do his damndest to help Lamar out. He fills Chop’s food bowl - he’s already taken him out for a walk twice today so he should be fine for the evening - and locks up the house before taking off in his car toward downtown Vinewood. 

* * *

Clappers seems to be the hot club for the peeps of Los Santos right now, Franklin realizes when he steps inside. There must be a good three-digit number of people here, at least. And with such a variety of patrons, from drug-addicts to snobby, rich business owners, it’s gonna be difficult to find Lamar. So Franklin sends him a message instead, “Where u @? The restaurant or the dance floor?” and awaits his response by the bar, grabbing a glass to make himself look like he belongs. He sips the pink liquor and it tastes about the same as a Capri-sun, so he slides it away from him on the counter with a grimace.

Franklin’s never been one for parties, really, but he isn’t a stick in the mud or anything. He just prefers a quiet night in with a good friend. Needless to say, Lamar and him share different views on how to have fun. Lamar keeps telling him the right way is by “fucking bitches and getting money”, but it doesn’t sound entirely wholehearted. And when they drink, his true self usually comes out. He’s easier to talk to then, less defensive and more honest. Franklin frowns to himself as he watches some patrons loudly chat and others dance their high, drunk asses off. This is a night-club, so the scent of sweat and ecstasy is to be expected, but Lamar’s answering message that dings on Franklin’s phone _isn’t_.

L: “I can c u from the other side of the club, dawg. I’m by the entrance. Let me do the talkin, ok? Just play along.”

Franklin lifts his head and spots Lamar next to a pretty girl in a black, skintight dress. She’s on her phone, looking bored and Lamar looks desperate, so Franklin makes his way over. He’s not too sure about Lamar being the one talking since he’s about as smooth as sandpaper, but Lamar asked him to play along, so Franklin will.

“Franklin, FC, good to see you, homie! Get over here!” Lamar greets him enthusiastically, pulling him into a bear hug, and Franklin chuckles at his theatrics but hugs him back nonetheless. It’s a little sad that Lamar only ever hugs him when they need to act, but Lamar isn’t exactly the affectionate type, either.

“Yeah, s’good to see you too, nigga. You finna introduce me to this fine lady, then?” Franklin asks him, noticing the glint of frustration in Lamar’s eyes but wanting to make sure his date doesn’t say goodbye to either of them with a bitch slap. The fine lady in question looks up at Franklin, surprised, but then she breaks into a dazzling smile, batting her eyelids slowly at him. Damn, does Lamar really treat her so poorly that she goes to the first next fella that talks to her?

“Yeah, yeah o' course. Franklin, this is Celia. Celia, Franklin. The homeboy I told you about,” introduces Lamar, sending a less than subtle nod Franklin’s way to tell him to play along, but Franklin’s already on top of it.

“Nice meetin' you.”

He shakes her hand and the five golden bracelets on her wrist make a jangling sound.

“Likewise, _Franklin_ ,” she drags out his name, clearly jumping right from Lamar over to him, and Franklin really isn’t all that interested.

“So yeah, I uh- I’m kinda goin' through sumtin’ right now. My aunt just passed on, and I could really use a friend," Franklin goes on, motioning to Lamar who nods along, gratitude replacing some of the worry in his eyes, and a smile reaches Franklin’s lips. Celia, however, moves right in for the gold, touching Franklin’s arm and pouting.

“You poor thing! I’m so sorry to hear that, maybe I could come with, help… _comfort_ you?”

 _Jesus_. Franklin sputters uselessly, things are going south quick here and he has no idea how to answer Celia's advances. He should’ve come up with something better, said he was being chased by a gang to scare her off. Now, however, Lamar seems fed up with his date hitting on his best friend, as he draws a sharp inhale and tugs on Franklin’s arm to get him closer to him and therefore further away from her.

“Nah, we’re good, we’re good, I got this, Celia. Y’know how it is, bros before hoes and all that.”

Franklin has to avoid face-palming at that, Lamar truly is a piece of work. Celia’s jaw drops and she looks between the two of them for a brief moment, before slapping Lamar right across his face. But Lamar almost looked like he was anticipating it.

“You men are all the same!” hisses Celia, adjusting a bra strap that had ‘accidentally’ slid down her shoulder and turning on her heel to leave.

Lamar rubs his cheek, but he's still smiling, his shoulders shaking as he tries to hold back his laughter. Franklin wants to be angry with him, or at least let him know what an unsmooth operator he is, but Lamar’s laughter is contagious, and soon they’re both doubled over laughing, and people around them are looking at them like they both got a screw loose. Maybe there’s some truth in that.

“Man, you do **_not_** know how to talk to women.”

Lamar shoves him in the side, but with no actual force, and they leave the club together.

“Shut up, F! I’m just a little rusty.” 

* * *

They stay to talk and split a smoke outside of Clappers, down at the corner where Franklin parked his car and where there aren’t as many people. Lamar takes a deep hit from the joint and passes it over to Franklin, his eyes trying to find purchase anywhere but on his friend and his sneaker scuffing against the concrete.

“So she was fine, right? As you could see fo' yoself, great figure, cute smile, nice…” but then he trails off, looking lost. Franklin breathes out a cloud of smoke and despite the wave of relaxation the weed brings him, he’s still a bit concerned for his friend. Lamar’s never usually this discouraged. And Franklin has noticed a slight change in his behavior over the last couple of weeks. They don’t really talk about girls anymore, except for the signature inappropriate comments Lamar makes about Franklin’s aunt, Denise. But a year ago or so, girls were all that Lamar knew how to talk about. So Franklin encourages him to continue, passing the blunt to Lamar.

_“But..?”_

Lamar is quiet for a moment, the end of his joint burning as he leaves it untouched, busy looking away from Franklin.

“But I wasn’t that into her. And it’s not just her, either. I’ve been on plenty o' dates, and yet every time they wanna take it to my place, I just… I lose interest. Shit, I even don’t even know why I’m tellin' you all of this. M’soundin' like a whiny-ass bitch.”

Lamar shakes his head, a deep crease in his brow, and he drops the joint onto the ground, putting it out beneath his sole. It wasn’t even half done, but Franklin can’t find it in him to get mad over that when Lamar looks so discouraged. Now Lamar’s definitely avoiding his gaze, a dark color dusting his cheeks.

“You’re fine, dawg. Who should you complain to if not your best friend?”

Franklin attempts a smile, but Lamar doesn’t look convinced.

“Look, you don’t gotta be over the fuckin' moon for every damn date you have. Maybe you just need a break, hang with your homie for a while? Yeah?”

Finally, Lamar cracks a smile, if only a small one, and he nods, clapping Franklin on the shoulder and jumping into his car.

“You damn straight, dawg! See, this is why I called you, you always got the great ideas!” he yells, much lighter in spirit than he was when Franklin first talked to him tonight. Franklin takes a seat behind the wheel, an eyebrow raised as he processes Lamar’s words.

“Did you just pay me a compliment?”

“Hey, don’t get used to it, nigga.” 

* * *

They’re cruising down the streets of Los Santos with Kendrick Lamar booming from the speakers when Franklin realizes that it’s getting late. He still has to get some dinner and check on Chop. He’d love to keep chatting with Lamar, especially now that he’s suddenly so open with him, maybe help cheer him up from his glum mood and less than great end to a date with a pretty girl, but maybe it would be inappropriate?

He glances Lamar’s way and catches him smiling out the car window, bopping his head along to the tunes. He almost doesn’t want to ask him.

“So I’ll drop you off at your place, then?” but he’s met with an incredulous look from Lamar, like he just killed the mood.

“Really nigga? I just poured my heart out to you about bein' some sorta bored of fucking bitches and you wanna send my ass home? Am I _that_ depressing?”

“Naw!” laughs Franklin, swerving past a slow driver on the road.

“Ya ain’t depressing, fool, I just figured since you weren’t feelin' fresh, that you wanted to-”

“Stay at home and mope by my lonesome-ass self? Fuck that shit, don’t let me deter your evening. What were you gon’ do before I called?” asks Lamar, and he’s being suspiciously nice, so Franklin searches his tone for a hint of sarcasm, but can’t find any. Maybe he just wants to pay Franklin back for saving his ass. Not that Franklin’s complaining, it’s nice to have a conversation with him without it turning into an argument for once.

He pulls into the parking lot to a supermarket, and Lamar gives him a _look_.

“ _This_ is what I was doin'. Or _am_ doin', rather. I worked hard today, I deserve a luxury meal.” Franklin explains, and Lamar eventually gives in with a sigh.

“Fine. I’ll play housewife and help you pick out groceries, but only if you buy me a drink afterward,” is Lamar’s demand. Franklin snickers as they walk inside the store. The air between them is light and their conversation easy, yet there’s something there that Franklin can’t quite grasp. Can’t place his finger on. But Lamar’s smiling and (hopefully) enjoying himself, and so is Franklin, so he lets it be for now.

“We both know it’s never just one drink.”

“This time it is. I don’t wanna get blackout drunk and risk doing sumtin' stupid when I ain’t straight. I just want a decent glass of firewater, if y’know what I’m sayin’?”

Lamar wiggles his eyebrows at Franklin, who snorts at his antics, shaking his head. There’s something to what the dude’s saying, but Franklin doesn’t want to bring it up. Doesn’t wanna blow this. Whatever _this_ is.

“Shit, I’m not sure I _do_ know what you’re sayin’. Look, if you just tag along and don’t bitch about my diet, I’ll take you out,” promises Franklin, tone dead serious, and Lamar’s eyes widen significantly at that. It’s almost comedic.

“... with a shotgun,” he finishes, and Lamar shoves him again, a little harder than the first time around.

“I shoulda known you was gon’ say that, you sneaky motherfucker.”

“Damn straight. You’re losin' your touch, homie.”

“You wish!” retorts Lamar, and they both keep bumping their arms together as they walk along the aisles. Franklin almost forgets that he’s got a task at hand, other than having fun with his best friend.

* * *

Franklin’s only got one ingredient left, but it’s in an aisle full of identical goods, so it takes him a while to find what he’s looking for. Meanwhile, Lamar’s watching him from behind with his arms crossed over his chest, a shopping cart with a baby screaming in the safe-dock next to him.

“Dayum, if that lil’ homie won’t shut the fuck up I might just have to pop him.”

“Don’t even joke about that, what if its parents are nearby?” Franklin replies absentmindedly, still searching… searching…

“Nah dude, there ain’t no parents in this aisle. You find your shit yet, before I die of old age or hearing impairment?”

 _There!_ Franklin holds up his find triumphantly above his head, and Lamar groans.

“ _That’s_ what I was waitin' for? Fuckin' corn?”

“Yeah! Damn worth it too, gonna make a meal you can’t get at Clappers.”

“Uh-huh, lookin' forward to it,” Lamar responds, sarcasm dripping off his tone. Just as they’re about to move on to the check-out, a boy at about eight years old points in their direction and says, far too loudly; “Look mom, look at the two daddies!”

They stand there like two fools with the wailing baby in the cart next to them, and Franklin almost feels like following the baby’s lead. As if this evening hasn’t been weird enough already.

Lamar’s caught looking like a deer in headlights, too flustered and/or disgusted - hopefully, it's more of the _former_ \- to get an answer in before the boy’s mom is dragging him off. Franklin waits for the other to start making a scene. He at least expects Lamar to shout after them that “I don’t go down like that!”, but instead, Lamar laughs. Franklin releases a breath he didn’t realize he was holding, soon enough laughing with him.

“You see the look on that bitch’s face?” he giggles, feeling light and carefree even though they’ve only smoked half a joint together, but there may be something else affecting him, too. Or _someone_...

“Do I look like a fuckin' dad? I can barely take care of my own damn self!” Lamar laughs even harder, and Franklin would never say it aloud, but he thinks Lamar can finally humor himself a little. His phone vibrates in his pocket and he sees that Michael’s sent him something. But he can take a look at that later. He does catch the time, however. How have they already been out for three hours?

“Shit, it’s already ten o’clock. You mind if we have that drink over at my crib instead?” he asks, his face flushing hot as he only registers how suggestive that sounds first when he asks it aloud. But Lamar’s face splits into an easy smile, eyes glimmering with a playfulness that’s so uncharacteristic that Franklin’s unsure if it’s just the drugs making him hallucinate.

“Not at all.” 

* * *

A final stop at a liquor store later, they’re back at Franklin’s house, where Lamar plays with Chop while Franklin prepares dinner. He can hear Chop’s excited barking from the backyard and Lamar praising him for fetching the ball. Soon enough, he’s cooked up a nice meal for the two of them (excluding Chop who's already been spoiled with a T-bone steak today) and Franklin calls Lamar inside.

They eat in comfortable silence while bingeing a new show. It’s not that good but it doesn’t really matter to Franklin, he’s happy. He watches Lamar from his side of the sofa, the content grin on his face, and his relaxed posture. He finds himself smiling like a fool, but only until Lamar catches him.

“What you starin’ at?”

Franklin shakes his head.

“Nothin’. You just seem more relaxed than you were when I found you at the bar.”

“Why wouldn’t I be? I get to stay at my rich homie’s fancy-ass house, spend time with him _and_ my other lil’ homie, and eat some good-ass food,” Lamar shrugs. Franklin can’t really argue with that. He can see Lamar’s eyes drift over to the paper bags on the kitchen island and fetches them, pouring them each a glass of white zinfandel.

“Now I know you ain’t a ‘wine snob’, but this is some good shit.”

“You got me alcohol, so I ain’t complainin’, dawg,” Lamar smiles back. Franklin raises his glass.

“Cheers.”

“To what?” Lamar asks, a brow gliding up towards his hairline. Franklin feels very affectionate tonight, so he doesn’t hesitate.

“To you, homie.”

“Oh yeah?”

“Damn straight. You don’t need no bitches to prove your self worth, Lamar. You’re good enough just as you is,” he rambles. It’s not supposed to be as mushy as it is, but Lamar doesn’t look angry, just… conflicted. Instead of telling Franklin he’s talking fruity, he says “Thanks, dude. I uh- I really appreciate that,” and then, an awkward silence falls over the room.

 _I shouldn’t’ve said it,_ Franklin thinks, downing his drink in order not to blurt out anything else stupid. He sees how a frown falls over Lamar’s face and how he scratches the inked skin on his neck like he usually does when he’s nervous. He once again doesn’t look in Franklin’s direction.

“I don’t get why I’m not into it. The dates, you know… The girls are hot, the places we go are nice, I mean-... What else could a guy want?”

“I dunno man, maybe you’re just gay,” Franklin says without thinking, and he knows it was the wrong call when Lamar visibly flinches, like the word itself has inflicted pain on him. It was only meant to be a joke, but Lamar clearly doesn’t see it that way. He shoots up from the couch, fury written all over the expression on his face.

“Fuck you!” he spits, venom in his words, and then he’s out the door. Franklin panics, nearly tripping over his own feet chasing him outside. Lamar’s already over the hill north of Franklin’s house.

“Lamar! It was a damn joke! Where the fuck are you goin'?!”

“Away from you, nigga! I need to think!” shouts Lamar back, out of sight now, and Franklin sinks back against the doorpost, full of regret. He’s such an idiot…

* * *

“You think he comin’ back?” a very drunk, very sad Franklin asks Chop, who whines in response.

“Yeah, I know. I really fucked up, didn’t I?”

He’s sitting outside his house by the pool, drowning his sorrows in booze like Michael has so kindly taught him and talking to his best friend’s dog to comfort himself. Now it’s been a few hours - or maybe it’s only _minutes_? - since Lamar left, and for every second that passes by, Franklin feels worse and worse about the situation. He can’t believe he actually told Lamar he thought he was gay. Even as a _joke_. He knows how careful Lamar is around that word, and it shouldn’t matter what his sexuality is and who he’s fucking, anyway, that’s _his_ business.

Yet with what a blast they’ve had tonight, the accident at the store, Lamar telling Franklin he isn’t that into girls anymore, Franklin had a pinch of hope that Lamar might like him back.

(Now, it wasn’t all that long ago that Franklin realized he liked Lamar. Things one day just suddenly became clear to him, that he didn’t care all that much for Tanisha marrying someone else, or a date going bad, ‘cause he was busy falling in love with his dumb, arrogant best friend)

But he must’ve been delusional. Just because a man isn’t feeling his dates for the moment doesn’t mean he’s batting for the other team. Maybe Lamar’s just going through a period in his life right now, and the last thing Franklin wants to do is make him feel worse if that’s the case. The two of them have been best friends since fucking kindergarten, Franklin can’t lose that. He’ll give Lamar some space, for now, text him in the morning to see if he got home alright.

“Lamar may need you back soon, Chop. Even if I didn’t fuck up our relationship, it seems like he needs support right now. And who’s the best support animal, Chop? Who is it?”

The Rottweiler barks happily in response, and Franklin nods sleepily, his eyelids growing heavy.

“Yeah, that’s right, it’s you. You such a good lil’ homie, Chop. The best…”

And before he knows it, he’s fast asleep.

* * *

Franklin wakes with a start when his phone goes off in the pocket of his sweatpants. He blearily opens his eyes and mutters that he’ll kill Michael for waking him up, but the message’s not from Michael.

L: “I’m done thinkin'. Come get me?”

It’s only one sentence, six words, and yet they seem so… final. Franklin sobers up and gets up off his ass, registering Chop’s eager barking now that his second owner’s back from the dead.

Damn. He really fell asleep outside, huh? It can’t be more than five or six or so in the morning, with the sun peeking up from over the horizon, casting a warm, orange light over the city that slowly creeps up on the skyscrapers. Franklin draws a ragged breath and types away a message, a pounding headache from last night’s drinking coming on but his concern for Lamar stronger.

F: “Yeah, fo sho. U @ ur crib?”

L: “Nah, nigga, I’m still up the hill. Couldn’t make myself leave. Not properly at least.”

This has a strange warmth blossoming in Franklin’s chest, and he’s already on his way over to the place Lamar’s talking about.

And true enough, there Lamar is, resting with his back against a tree on the very hill right outside of Franklin’s house, with a half-smug, half-sheepish smile on his face. Franklin’s heart promptly makes its way to his throat.

“You fuckin' _slept_ out here? Have you lost yo damn mind?”

“I didn’t sleep at all, what do you take me for? Now sit your paranoid ass down.”

That’s about as good an invitation as Franklin will get, so he gratefully takes a seat. He can’t believe Lamar’s still here, but he can’t say he isn’t happy to see him. Lamar opens his mouth to speak, but Franklin beats him to it.

“I’m sorry. What I said yesterday, it was supposed to be a joke, but I shouldn’t’ve-”

“It’s all good, dawg. I mean, my reaction was kinda stupid, anyway,” Lamar shrugs, letting Franklin know he really isn’t angry, and that's relieving to hear. Still, it doesn’t clear much up for Franklin when it comes to their relationship. He’s thankful to keep Lamar as a friend, of course, but,...

“I see you tryna figure me out there, you sneaky sunuvabitch. Lemme help you out, yeah?”

Franklin blinks a couple of times, then nods, awaiting Lamar’s next words with bated breath. Lamar's expression is gentle and easy, a soft, golden light casting over his features. Franklin hasn’t ever been this close to Lamar before, but now that he is, he can safely say that the man's beautiful.

“I’m not gay, Franklin,” Lamar finally says, sure as rain, and all of the air is punched out of Franklin’s lungs. Lamar doesn’t really use his name that often, so it hits him extra hard. The rejection. The hurt.

Then, a small smile curls at the corners of Lamar’s full lips and he inches his way closer to the other, who’s frozen to the spot, incredibly confused.

“But I obviously ain’t straight either, since you made me fall for your ass,” he smiles, careful but honest. Franklin’s broken at this point, unable to do much else but blink and gape like a stupid fish out of water. Lamar’s hand brushes against his and his gaze flickers down to Franklin’s lips, then back up at his eyes again.

“Fo real?” Franklin breathes, and Lamar chuckles, placing a steady hand on Franklin’s nape and repeating his words back to him.

“Fo real. Now, do you wanna kiss me or do I gotta do all the work?” Lamar challenges him, a thumb sliding beneath Franklin’s collar. Franklin ignores the burning of his cheeks and takes Lamar’s face in his hands, pulling him in for a kiss.

The contact is brief, at first, a dip into the waters to see if they’re into it, and Franklin can already tell that he _definitely_ is. He feels a pleasant buzz of electricity shoot through his veins when his lips touch Lamar’s, a smile pulling at his lips. They barely part from each other, noses brushing as they stare into each other’s half-lidded, blown eyes, their shallow, short breaths mingling together.

“That okay?” Franklin whispers, thumbing at Lamar’s cheek, his skin hot beneath rough fingertips. Lamar snickers, whispers “Nigga, it’s _more_ than okay,” and straddles Franklin’s lap, moving his hands down to his waist. He dives back in for another kiss, and it’s more than just a peck this time. It’s this kind of kiss that sends shivers down Franklin’s spine and has him wrapping his arms around Lamar with a pleased hum, pulling him closer. Lamar’s so soft yet sturdy, and he makes this pretty little noise of surprise when Franklin slides his hands under his shirt and over his back, feeling the toned muscles contract under his fingers.

They stay like this for a good while, exchanging kisses and touches until the sun comes up, and even then Franklin doesn’t want to let go. He doesn’t want the moment to end, wants to keep holding Lamar and showing him his appreciation through passionate kisses.

“Yo, it’s broad daylight out, we should get back inside.”

“Don’t wanna,” Franklin huffs, moving his kisses to Lamar’s neck and eliciting this keening mewl from Lamar, who rocks his body against his, fingers raking over his scalp and his buzzcut. He laughs breathily, tilting his head to give Franklin access yet still trying to protest with “You think _I_ want to? I just don’t wanna give your neighbors the VIP view if y’know what I’m sayin', I wanna keep that all to _myself,_ ” and it’s a valid argument. So Franklin places one lingering kiss just above Lamar’s collarbone and a bite for good measure, earning himself a gasp from the other. He stands up and offers a hand to Lamar, who eagerly takes it.

They get inside to the privacy of Franklin’s house and move to the couch, still exchanging kisses and giggling like two damn teenagers. They keep it PG, Franklin doesn’t want to move too fast, and besides, they’ve got time. Still, Lamar’s melting under Franklin’s touch, leaning against his chest as he trails small kisses along his jawline.

“Shit, if you told me earlier today that I’d be kissin' my homeboy, I’d probably have popped yo kneecaps,” exhales Lamar, hot and heavy against the skin of Franklin’s neck, and Franklin chuckles in response, unable to stop smiling.

“Still, you kiss better than most girls, so…” it’s barely above a mumble at best, but Franklin hears it all the same. His heart swells in his chest and he pulls Lamar impossibly closer, noticing that he’s completely relaxed and limp against him. His breaths are getting heavier too, like he’s falling asleep.

“Yo, you mind if I take a lil’ nap in yo lap? You’re comfy as hell and I didn’t get a wink of sleep last night.”

“And who’s fault is that?” Franklin teases, but he makes himself comfortable all the same, draping an arm around Lamar and coaxing him to lie down with him.

“Shut up, nigga, I don’t see you complainin’ now.”

“M’not complainin’ at all,” yawns Franklin, fatigue catching up with him now, too. Staying up worrying if you ruined a life-long friendship all night does that to you, steals all your energy. So Franklin places one last, chaste kiss to Lamar’s brow and strokes his hands up and down his back until the other’s snoring against him. Soon enough, sleep pulls him under as well.

**Author's Note:**

> Writing fics is my way of coping right now with the horrible news about a great man, George Floyd. If I was in America, I'd join a protest, but there's only so much I can do. Still, I want to make it clear that police brutality is not okay and that we should do everything we can to help stop it and spread awareness. Black lives matter and George Floyd deserves justice, as do all other victims of police brutality and racism. Thanks so much for reading, please stay safe!


End file.
